


Tephramancy, Stregone Simon

by Kharnesh



Series: Lovelace & Bane [5]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), Strega Nona - Tomie dePaola, The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bonding, Divination, Enya - Freeform, First Meetings, Folklore, Galina Malchugina, Honey, Le Rapt D'Europe, Magic, Magic Simon Lewis, Magical Artifacts, Memory of Trees, Nicknames, Peter Wessel Zapffe, Purpura, Simon Lewis Deserves Nice Things, Strega Nona - Freeform, Stregone, Symbolism, Tangerine - Freeform, Warlocks, fashion - Freeform, nice things, peach - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:46:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kharnesh/pseuds/Kharnesh
Summary: Tephramancy - The art of divination through the use of human ashes.The appearance of new apprentice shifts the balance of Simon's world.





	1. Purpura

One of Simon’s favorite pastimes was sitting in Magnus’ boudoir in the morning and watching him build himself up for the day. Magnus would race from one end of the room to the other, grabbing clothes from closets and drawers and piles. He would throw clothes and cradle clothes. He would wear clothes and tear off clothes. He was a one warlock wrecking ball, tearing through anything in the path of his swing.

Simon liked to sit on Magnus’ vanity, legs swinging over the edge, and watch him go. The room would be torn apart, garment by garment. Satin and silk, velvet and wool; no sweater or jacket, leggings or jeans, were safe. All began in their designated places, and all ended in wrinkled heaps on the plush carpet below. 

Magnus would go to his vanity when he was finished, his discarded clothing floating back to their places with a few waves of blue sparks. He would tickle the backs of Simon’s knees before settling down for the task ahead. 

There were quite a few bottles and jars, palettes and brushes, splayed across Magnus’ vanity. He would let Simon roll the glass bottles between his hands and skim his fingers over the soft bristles of the brushes while Magnus was patting and smoothing over his face. They would talk and laugh together there at the vanity every morning, gathering their strength before the day began. 

On one of those days, Magnus gave Simon a gift. It was a purpura jar that stood on three clawfoot legs and was held closed by a silver latch. There was a pale peach cream inside that smelled of mellow honey and sweet tangerines, and Simon wished he could coat the inside of his nostrils with it. 

“I’m not sure if you’ll ever be interested in any of this,” Magnus said, gesturing to himself. Simon guessed he was talking about the sequins and glitter and boisterous colors Magnus was wearing. “But even someone who rolls around in the mud all day and wears cut off jeans deserves to smell good.” 

Simon dabbed at the smallest possible bit of cream with his finger and rubbed it behind his ear. Magnus scoffed and wiped a glob onto his cheek. 

“And they especially deserve to have a baby soft face,” he laughed as he rubbed the cream into Simon’s skin. He sobered as the slickness faded. “You deserve good things, Simon. You deserve nice things.” 

Simon put a bit of cream on his other cheek, hoping to pull Magnus back into smiling. “I don’t wear cut off jeans.” 

“And thank god for that, Dewdrop.” Magnus did smile then, smoothing the cream out. “Because they are neither good nor nice.” 

Simon worried that using the cream so liberally would end with him running out in a few days' time, but Magnus just scoffed again, this time with some humor, when he voiced his fear. He explained that the jar was a special jar; a magic jar. Magnus had spent many nights muttering over and lighting sparks around it, but he didn’t tell Simon that. He only explained that should Simon say “Purpura, more please,” then the amount of cream in the jar would grow, and should Simon say “Purpura, please stop,” then the cream would stop its growth and be still. 

Magnus said nothing of the nights spent muttering and sparking, just as he said nothing of the overall monetary cost of his endeavor. He didn’t say a word, but Simon still knew, and he was ever so grateful. 

Simon showed his appreciation by offering to apply Magnus’ eyeshadow. The colors he chose never matched Magnus’ clothes, and his attempts at a smoky effect left much to be desired. He never got it right, but Magnus always beamed when he looked in the mirror. Simon thought Magnus’ happiness was worth his own frustration.


	2. Apprentice

Magnus didn’t take on apprentices. At least, he didn’t before Simon, but that was a special case. The point was, Magnus didn’t like taking on apprentices, but Barrington Mull had quite a few heavy pockets.

Magnus wasn’t a money-grabber, but he was aware that he was the sole guardian of an underage, somewhat mundane being. He knew money was a necessity for raising a child, and he knew he would have been remiss in his duties had he let the opportunity that was Barrington Mull pass him by. In no way did that mean he enjoyed the duty. 

The inquiry had been made face to face. Magnus liked people who knew what they wanted, but a random stranger ambushing him while he was picking up a copy of Enya’s The Memory of Trees for Simon was not his preferred method of first contact. 

Magnus wanted to refuse the request immediately, but the prospect of adding some padding to his irregular income was too tempting to ignore. A more formal meeting was planned, as well as the presenting of references. In the end, Magnus brought the no longer random stranger home for what Barrington called “his educational magic sessions.” 

Simon didn’t particularly like Barrington Mull. He was a tall man with a set of feline whiskers growing from his upper lip and long blonde hair that he pulled back with a length of rawhide. It wasn’t really Barrington that Simon didn’t like. It was other things, like his length of rawhide that had still smelled of suffering and young blood and the presumptuous way he had walked into their home like he owned every panel of wood and swatch of fabric. Simon didn’t like the way he looked at Europa. 

Barrington introduced himself as being on the cusp of his one hundredth birthday. He smirked when he said that, and Simon was weak and gave in to his urge to poke holes. 

“When is your birthday? Maybe we could have a party,” Simon asked. 

The canyons of Barrington’s smirk deepened. “December seventeenth.” 

“Of eighteen ninety-nine?” Simon queried. “That was Peter Wessel Zapffe’s birthday, wasn’t it?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Barrington’s creases smoothed some. “That’s right.” 

“Super cool.” Simon nodded excitedly. 

Liar. 

Peter Wessel Zapffe had been born on December _eighteenth_ of eighteen ninety-nine, not the seventeenth. If it had really been Barrington’s birthday, he would have known that. For as proud as he had sounded, he would have known that. 

Simon cocked his head, looking at him from top to bottom. 

Once he got past the stench clinging to the rawhide in Barrington’s hair, Simon could see his youth in the laces of his shoes. Simon could see his inexperience in the small specks of dandruff on his shirt collar. Simon could see the truth in the creases of his wrist. 

Barrington Mull had been born as Barry Mulligan to Thomas and Lisa Mulligan on December seventeenth, nineteen sixty-two. He shared his birthday with the Olympian Galina Malchugina. 

He was almost thirty-seven years old, not one hundred. He lied, which was stupid. There was no shame in youth. There was no shame in the mistakes of youth, either. There was only shame in the unwillingness to learn from those mistakes. Simon thought that Barrington Mull might be an unwilling kind of person.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my mother for being my beta for this piece.


End file.
